CHAPTER XXV.

ARION- IBYCUS- SIMONIDES- SAPPHO.

THE poets whose adventures compose this chapter were real persons
some of whose works yet remain, and their influence on poets who
succeeded them is yet more important than their poetical remains.
The adventures recorded of them in the following stories rest on the
same authority as other narratives of the "Age of Fable," that is,
of the poets who have told them. In their present form, the first
two are translated from the German, Arion from Schlegel, and Ibycus
from Schiller.

ARION.

Arion was a famous musician, and dwelt at the court of Periander,
king of Corinth, with whom he was a great favourite. There was to be a
musical contest in Sicily, and Arion longed to compete for the
prize, He told his wish to Periander, who besought him like a
brother to give up the thought. "Pray stay with me," he said, "and
be contented. He who strives to win may lose." Arion answered, "A
wandering life best suits the free heart of a poet. The talent which a
god bestowed on me, I would fain make a source of pleasure to
others. And if I win the prize, how will the enjoyment of it be
increased by the consciousness of my widespread fame!" He went, won
the prize, and embarked with his wealth in a Corinthian ship for home.
On the second morning after setting sail, the wind breathed mild and
fair. "O Periander," he exclaimed, "dismiss your fears! Soon shall you
forget them in my embrace. With what lavish offerings will we
display our gratitude to the gods, and how merry will we be at the
festal board!" The wind and sea continued propitious. Not a cloud
dimmed the firmament. He had not trusted too much to the ocean- but he
had to man. He overheard the seamen exchanging hints with one another,
and found they were plotting to possess themselves of his treasure.
Presently they surrounded him loud and mutinous, and said, "Arion, you
must die! If you would have a grave on shore, yield yourself to die on
this spot; but if otherwise, cast yourself into the sea." "Will
nothing satisfy you but my life?" said he. "Take my gold, and welcome,
I willingly buy my life at that price." "No, no; we cannot spare
you. Your life would be too dangerous to us. Where could we go to
escape from Periander, if he should know that you had been robbed by
us? Your gold would be of little use to us, if, on returning home,
we could never more be free from fear." "Grant me, then," said he,
"a last request, since nought will avail to save my life, that I may
die, as I have lived, as becomes a bard. When I shall have sung my
death song, and my harp-strings shall have ceased to vibrate, then I
will bid farewell to life, and yield uncomplaining to my fate." This
prayer, like the others, would have been unheeded,- they thought
only of their booty,- but to hear so famous a musician, that moved
their rude hearts. "Suffer me," he added, "to arrange my dress. Apollo
will not favour me unless I be clad in my minstrel garb."

He clothed his well-proportioned limbs in gold and purple fair to
see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned his
arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his neck and
shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odours. His left hand held the
lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck its chords. Like
one inspired, he seemed to drink the morning air and glitter in the
morning ray. The seamen gazed with admiration. He strode forward to
the vessel's side and looked down into the deep blue sea. Addressing
his lyre, he sang, "Companion of my voice, come with me to the realm
of shades. Though Cerberus may growl, we know the power of song can
tame his rage. Ye heroes of Elysium, who have passed the darkling
flood,- ye happy souls, soon shall I join your band. Yet can ye
relieve my grief? Alas, I leave my friend behind me. Thou, who didst
find thy Eurydice, and lose her again as soon as found; when she had
vanished like a dream, how didst thou hate the cheerful light! I
must away, but I will not fear. The gods look down upon us. Ye who
slay me unoffending, when I am no more, your time of trembling shall
come. Ye Nereids, receive your guest, who throws himself upon your
mercy!" So saying, he sprang into the deep sea. The waves covered him,
and the seamen held on their way, fancying themselves safe from all
danger of detection.

But the strains of his music had drawn round him the inhabitants
of the deep to listen, and Dolphins followed the ship as if chained by
a spell. While he struggled in the waves, a Dolphin offered him his
back, and carried him mounted thereon safe to shore. At the spot where
he landed, a monument of brass was afterwards erected upon the rocky
shore, to preserve the memory of the event.

When Arion and the dolphin parted, each to his own element, Arion
thus poured forth his thanks: "Farewell, thou faithful, friendly fish!
Would that I could reward thee; but thou canst not wend with me, nor I
with thee. Companionship we may not have. May Galatea, queen of the
deep, accord thee her favour, and thou, proud of the burden, draw
her chariot over the smooth mirror of the deep."

Arion hastened from the shore, and soon saw before him the towers of
Corinth. He journeyed on, harp in hand, singing as he went, full of
love and happiness, forgetting his losses, and mindful only of what
remained, his friend and his lyre. He entered the hospitable halls,
and was soon clasped in the embrace of Periander. "I come back to
thee, my friend," he said. "The talent which a god bestowed has been
the delight of thousands, but false knaves have stripped me of my
well-earned treasure; yet I retain the consciousness of widespread
fame." Then he told Periander all the wonderful events that had
befallen him, who heard him with amazement. "Shall such wickedness
triumph?" said he. "Then in vain is power lodged in my hands. That
we may discover the criminals, you must remain here in concealment,
and so they will approach without suspicion." When the ship. arrived
in the harbour, he summoned the mariners before him. "Have you heard
anything of Arion?" he inquired. "I anxiously look for his return."
They replied, "We left him well and prosperous in Tarentum." As they
said these words, Arion stepped forth and faced them. His
well-proportioned limbs were arrayed in gold and purple fair to see,
his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned his
arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his neck and
shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odours; his left hand held the
lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck its chords. They
fell prostrate at his feet, as if a lightning bolt had struck them.
"We meant to murder him, and he has become a god. O Earth, open and
receive us!" Then Periander spoke. "He lives, the master of the lay!
Kind Heaven protects the poet's life. As for you, I invoke not the
spirit of vengeance; Arion wishes not your blood. Ye slaves of
avarice, begone! Seek some barbarous land, and never may aught
beautiful delight your souls!"

Spenser represents Arion, mounted on his dolphin, accompanying the
train of Neptune and Amphitrite:

"Then was there heard a most celestial sound
Of dainty music which did next ensue,
And, on the floating waters as enthroned,
Arion with his harp unto him drew
The ears and hearts of all that goodly crew;
Even when as yet the dolphin which him bore
Through the AEgean Seas from pirates' view,
Stood still, by him astonished at his lore,
And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar."

Byron, in his "Childe Harold," Canto II., alludes to the story of
Arion, when, describing his voyage, he represents one of the seamen
making music to entertain the rest:

"The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;
Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe;
Such be our fate when we return to land!
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;
A circle there of merry listeners stand,
Or to some well-known measure featly move
Thoughtless as if on shore they still were free to rove."

IBYCUS.

In order to understand the story of Ibycus which follows it is
necessary to remember, first, that the theatres of the ancients were
immense fabrics capable of containing from ten to thirty thousand
spectators, and as they were used only on festal occasions, and
admission was free to all, they were usually filled. They were without
roofs and open to the sky, and the performances were in the daytime.
Secondly, the appalling representation of the Furies is not
exaggerated in the story. It is recorded that AEschylus, the tragic
poet, having on one occasion represented the Furies in a chorus of
fifty performers, the terror of the spectators was such that many
fainted and were thrown into convulsions, and the magistrates
forbade a like representation for the future.

Ibycus, the pious poet, was on his way to the chariot races and
musical competitions held at the Isthmus of Corinth, which attracted
all of Grecian lineage. Apollo had bestowed on him the gift of song,
the honeyed lips of the poet, and he pursued his way with lightsome
step, full of the god. Already the towers of Corinth crowning the
height appeared in view, and he had entered with pious awe the
sacred grove of Neptune. No living object was in sight, only a flock
of cranes flew overhead taking the same course as himself in their
migration to a southern clime. "Good luck to you, ye friendly
squadrons," he exclaimed, "my companions from across the sea. I take
your company for a good omen. We come from far and fly in search of
hospitality. May both of us meet that kind reception which shields the
stranger guest from harm!"

He paced briskly on, and soon was in the middle of the wood. There
suddenly, at a narrow pass, two robbers stepped forth and barred his
way. He must yield or fight. But his hand, accustomed to the lyre, and
not to the strife of arms, sank powerless. He called for help on men
and gods, but his cry reached no defender's ear. "Then here must I
die," said he, "in a strange land, unlamented, cut off by the hand
of outlaws, and see none to avenge my, cause." Sore wounded, he sank
to the earth, when hoarse screamed the cranes overhead. "Take up my
cause, ye cranes," he said, "since no voice but yours answers to my
cry." So saying he closed his eyes in death.

The body, despoiled and mangled, was found, and though disfigured
with wounds, was recognized by the friend in Corinth who had
expected him as a guest. "Is it thus I find you restored to me?" he
exclaimed. "I who hoped to entwine your temples with the wreath of
triumph in the strife of song!"

The guests assembled at the festival heard the tidings with
dismay. All Greece felt the wound, every heart owned its loss. They
crowded round the tribunal of the magistrates, and demanded
vengeance on the murderers and expiation with their blood.

But what trace or mark shall point out the perpetrator from amidst
the vast multitude attracted by the splendour of the feast? Did he
fall by the hands of robbers or did some private enemy slay him? The
all-discerning sun alone can tell, for no other eye beheld it. Yet not
improbably the murderer even now walks in the midst of the throng, and
enjoys the fruits of his crime, while vengeance seeks for him in vain.
Perhaps in their own temple's enclosure he defies the gods, mingling
freely in this throng of men that now presses into the amphitheatre.

For now crowded together, row on row, the multitude fills the
seats till it seems as if the very fabric would give way. The murmur
of voices sounds like the roar of the sea, while the circles
widening in their ascent rise tier on tier, as if they would reach the
sky.

And now the vast assemblage listens to the awful voice of the chorus
personating the Furies, which in solemn guise advances with measured
step, and moves around the circuit of the theatre. Can they be
mortal women who compose that awful group, and can that vast concourse
of silent forms be living beings?

The choristers, clad in black, bore in their fleshless hands torches
blazing with a pitchy flame. Their cheeks were bloodless, and in place
of hair writhing and swelling serpents curled around their brows.
Forming a circle, these awful beings sang their hymns, rending the
hearts of the guilty, and enchaining all their faculties. It rose
and swelled, overpowering the sound of the instruments, stealing the
judgment, palsying the heart, curdling the blood.

"Happy the man who keeps his heart pure from guilt and crime! Him we
avengers touch not; he treads the path of life secure from us. But
woe! woe! to him who has done the deed of secret murder. We, the
fearful family of Night, fasten ourselves upon his whole being. Thinks
he by flight to escape us? We fly still faster in pursuit, twine our
snakes around his feet, and bring him to the ground. Unwearied we
pursue; no pity checks our course; still on and on, to the end of
life, we give him no peace nor rest." Thus the Eumenides sang, and
moved in solemn cadence, while stillness like the stillness of death
sat over the whole assembly as if in the presence of superhuman
beings; and then in solemn march completing the circuit of the
theatre, they passed out at the back of the stage.

Every heart fluttered between illusion and reality, and every breast
panted with undefined terror, quailing before the awful power that
watches secret crimes and winds unseen the skein of destiny. At that
moment a cry burst forth from one of the uppermost benches- "Look!
look! comrade, yonder are the cranes of Ibycus!" And suddenly there
appeared sailing across the sky a dark object which a moment's
inspection showed to be a flock of cranes flying directly over the
theatre. "Of Ibycus! did he say?" The beloved name revived the
sorrow in every breast. As wave follows wave over the face of the sea,
so ran from mouth to mouth the words, "Of Ibycus! him whom we all
lament, whom some murderer's hand laid low! What have the cranes to do
with him?" And louder grew the swell of voices, while like a
lightning's flash the thought sped through every heart, "Observe the
power of the Eumenides! The pious poet shall be avenged! the
murderer has informed against himself. Seize the man who uttered
that cry and the other to whom he spoke!"

The culprit would gladly have recalled his words, but it was too
late. The faces of the murderers, pale with terror, betrayed their
guilt. The people took them before the judge, they confessed their
crime, and suffered the punishment they deserved.

SIMONIDES.

Simonides was one of the most prolific of the early poets of Greece,
but only a few fragments of his compositions have descended to us.
He wrote hymns, triumphal odes, and elegies. In the last species of
composition he particularly excelled. His genius was inclined to the
pathetic, and none could touch with truer effect the chords of human
sympathy. The "Lamentation of Danae," the most important of the
fragments which remain of his poetry, is based upon the tradition that
Danae and her infant son were confined by order of her father,
Acrisius, in a chest and set adrift on the sea. The chest floated
towards the island of Seriphus, where both were rescued by Dictys, a
fisherman, and carried to Polydectes, king of the country, who
received and protected them. The child, Perseus, when grown up
became a famous hero, whose adventures have been recorded in a
previous chapter.

Simonides passed much of his life at the courts of princes, and
often employed his talents in panegyric and festal odes, receiving his
reward from the munificence of those whose exploits he celebrated.
This employment was not derogatory, but closely resembles that of
the earliest bards, such as Demodocus, described by Homer, or of Homer
himself, as recorded by tradition.

On one occasion, when residing at the court of Scopas, king of
Thessaly, the prince desired him to prepare a poem in celebration of
his exploits, to be recited at a banquet. In order to diversify his
theme, Simonides, who was celebrated for his piety, introduced into
his poem the exploits of Castor and Pollux. Such digressions were
not unusual with the poets on similar occasions, and one might suppose
an ordinary mortal might have been content to share the praises of the
sons of Leda. But vanity is exacting; and as Scopas sat at his
festal board among his courtiers and sycophants, he grudged every
verse that did not rehearse his own praises. When Simonides approached
to receive the promised reward Scopas bestowed but half the expected
sum, saying, "Here is payment for my portion of thy performance;
Castor and Pollux will doubtless compensate thee for so much as
relates to them." The disconcerted poet returned to his seat amidst
the laughter which followed the great man's jest. In a little time
he received a message that two young men on horseback were waiting
without and anxious to see him. Simonides hastened to the door, but
looked in vain for the visitors. Scarcely, however, had he left the
banqueting hall when the roof fell in with a loud crash, burying
Scopas and all his guests beneath the ruins. On inquiring as to the
appearance of the young men who had sent for him, Simonides was
satisfied that they were no other than Castor and Pollux themselves.

SAPPHO.

Sappho was a poetess who flourished in a very early age of Greek
literature. Of her works few fragments remain, but they are enough
to establish her claim to eminent poetical genius. The story of Sappho
commonly alluded to is that she was passionately in love with a
beautiful youth named Phaon, and failing to obtain a return of
affection she threw herself from the promontory of Leucadia into the
sea, under a superstition that those who should take that
"Lover's-leap" would, if not destroyed, be cured of their love.